


as softly as the falling leaves

by magnificentbirb



Category: Naruto
Genre: Brothers, Gen, Give Me All Of The Brothers, So Much Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentbirb/pseuds/magnificentbirb
Summary: The nightmares never seem childish, when Hashirama is having them. Nor do they seem childish when he wakes. The fear of losing his brothers could never be categorized as a childish one, especially not in this time of war.

Four glimpses into the lives of two brothers.





	

Hashirama thrashes awake out of the nightmare, heart racing, drenched in sweat, and finds himself sitting bolt upright in bed, staring into darkness. He focuses on the small squares of moonlight on his bedroom floor, uses the steady cross-hatch pattern to center himself, calming his jittering nerves. He takes deep breaths, one after another, and curls tight fingers into the blanket pooled around his hips. After a few minutes, he feels that it’s safe to close his eyes again, and he does so, shivering only slightly as the darkness creeps back in.

_It was a dream_ , he tells himself. _Just a dream. No need to be upset. It was only a dream._

As always, the words are just words; they do nothing to calm Hashirama’s fears. He lets out a shuddering breath and claps his hands firmly to his cheeks, urging himself to get a grip. He turns fourteen in two weeks; he should be beyond childish nightmares by now.

Only… the nightmares never seem childish, when Hashirama is having them. Nor do they seem childish when he wakes.

The fear of losing his brothers could never be categorized as a childish one, especially not in this time of war.

Hashirama inhales shakily. The dream is the same, even if the faces change, and this time… this time the face was Tobirama’s, bloodstained, frozen into a rictus of pain, red eyes dull and unseeing. Every time, Hashirama gets to his brother’s side too late, and every time, he’s left alone on the battlefield, cradling a small, limp body in his arms, sobbing into pale hair, clutching at the rapidly fading warmth that he will never feel again.

Hashirama shudders as the nightmare rears its head again, creeping like a spider across his skin.

He needs to move.

Hashirama jerks the covers off of his legs and rises to his feet, but then he pauses, unsure what to do next. Some nights he takes to pacing the length of his room, just to keep himself moving, to keep his body busy, to keep from falling back into a restless sleep. Other nights he’ll meditate, or slowly, quietly, run through his katas. 

Tonight, though...

Tonight he wants to see his brother.

Hashirama slips silently out of his room and down the long, dark hallway, keeping to the wall to avoid any creaking floorboards. He has no desire to wake Butsuma, who would without a doubt dismiss Hashirama’s nightmares as childish and not befitting a shinobi, but at the moment, Hashirama does not care what his father thinks; he just doesn't want him to interrupt.

Hashirama pauses only for a moment when he reaches Tobirama’s room, wondering whether he’ll wake him, and then decides that he doesn't altogether care. He quietly slides open the door and peeks inside.

Tobirama’s room is smaller than his, and nearly pitch dark, being on the opposite side of the house from the moonlight. Hashirama takes a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, and then he sees his brother, a small lump beneath the blankets of his futon, only a tuft of silvery hair visible.

Hashirama lets out a single, shuddering breath of relief, and apparently that’s all it takes for Tobirama to wake. Hashirama can see him breathe in deeply, coming out of a heavy sleep, and then he turns and raises himself up on an elbow, facing Hashirama, eyes gleaming in the darkness.

“Brother?” he says, softly, his voice still a bit thick with sleep.

Hashirama’s hand clenches against the doorframe. He needed to hear that voice.

“I didn't mean to wake you,” Hashirama says. “Go back to sleep.”

Tobirama just fixes him with a narrow look.

“It happened again?” he asks, somehow managing to sound both sharp and sleepy, and Hashirama closes his eyes; his brother has always been too observant.

“Yes,” he says.

Tobirama just watches him for a moment, and then he rolls onto his side, turning his back to Hashirama, and says, “Don’t snore.”

Hashirama stares. There is blank space on the futon at Tobirama’s back, as clear an invitation as his younger brother would ever make.

Heart in his throat, Hashirama steps into the room, slides the door closed behind him, and heads for the futon. He slips under the covers and automatically reaches out to tug his little brother into his arms. Tobirama makes a faint noise of protest, but he doesn't fight.

Hashirama buries his face in the soft hair at the nape of Tobirama’s neck. He squeezes Tobirama against his chest, memorizing his warmth, the cadence of his heart and breathing, anything to banish the memories of that cold body on the battlefield.

His last remaining brother. His most precious person.

“I'm sorry,” Hashirama whispers into Tobirama’s hair. “I don't mean to be a bother, I just… I refuse to lose you. You’re all I have left.”

Tobirama reaches up to pat Hashirama’s arm where it’s curled tightly around his chest.

“I'm not going anywhere, Brother,” Tobirama says sleepily. “You won't lose me.”

The words curl in Hashirama’s gut, and he wants to believe them, but he thinks of Kawarama and Itama and he holds his brother tighter.

“Get some sleep,” Tobirama says, surprisingly gentle. “I'm staying right here, Brother. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Hashirama says, and finally feels himself tipping back into sleep, lulled by the soft breathing of his little brother against his chest.

*

It happens so fast.

Battles in general are just a series of blurs to Hashirama, a roiling world of screams and clanging metal and earth getting ripped to shreds by the combination of a hundred different jutsus. Hashirama can only focus on one area of the battlefield at a time, finds himself locked into the push and pull of this one sector of violence, shifting constantly between defending his clansmen and attacking those who would see them all dead.

Everything happens quickly, in battles, but even knowing that, Hashirama is shocked by how suddenly Tobirama appears in front of him, arms outstretched, and then collapses to his knees before him, chest studded with blades, blood staining his armor.

Even as Hashirama falls to his knees beside his brother, catching Tobirama’s shoulders and lowering him gently to the ground, speaking nonsense phrases like _you’re going to be fine_ , and _it’ll be okay_ , and _just hang on_ , he struggles to make sense of what just happened. He was sure that mere moments ago Tobirama was halfway across the battlefield, trading blows with the young Uchiha, Madara’s only remaining brother, always Tobirama’s match, so close to his equal. Hashirama hastily scans the battlefield, but Izuna is lost in the chaos, and the only nearby Uchiha is a lean young man bristling with blades, who meets his eye, sneers, and vanishes.

Hashirama’s blood runs cold.

_Those blades were meant for him._

“What the hell were you thinking?” Hashirama finally says, the only clear question through his useless platitudes, and he tries to ignore the way his hands ( _covered in blood, don’t think about that_ ) are shaking against Tobirama’s armor. “What are you doing here?”

Tobirama’s only response is to press a trembling hand against Hashirama’s breastplate, and Hashirama glances down in confusion, but there’s nothing there.

“My seal,” Tobirama says through gritted teeth, and Hashirama closes his eyes, because of course Tobirama marked him with his seal, of course he would feel the need to be able to flit to Hashirama’s side at a moment’s notice, should he ever notice that his older brother is in danger.

“You shouldn’t have—”

“Are you hurt?” Tobirama asks between gasps, his bloodied hand clenching blindly against Hashirama’s chest. Hashirama grasps his brother’s hand firmly in his own, and gets a feeble squeeze in return.

“I'm fine,” he says, trying not to let the panic creep into his voice, but there are so many blades, long and cruel, distinctly Uchiha, and Hashirama forces that thought aside, files away the low, churning fury in his gut for a time when his brother isn’t bleeding out in his arms. “Didn't even get close to me.”

“Good.” Some of the tension leaks out of Tobirama’s body, and his head lolls to the side, his eyes falling shut for just a moment too long. Hashirama’s throat seizes, and he tightens his grip on Tobirama’s hand, clutching those pale, bloody fingers as tightly as he can.

“Don't fall asleep,” he says. “Don’t you dare.” He turns his head to scan the battlefield, hollering, “MEDIC!”

“Don't,” Tobirama says quietly. “It's fine.”

“Like hell it is,” Hashirama snaps, still frantically searching for a medic. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Tobirama huffs out, fondly, and Hashirama’s heart clenches. He presses his hand briefly to Tobirama’s forehead, skin to cool, scratched metal.

“Just stay with me,” he says—pleads, really—and then he lifts his head and shouts again, “ _MEDIC!_ ”

A young woman slides to her knees at his side, the pale band of a medic-nin tied tightly around her bicep. She takes in the situation with one glance, her lips pressing together in a grim line, and if she shows any anxiety over being called to heal the younger brother and heir to the Senju clan’s leader, then she hides it well.

“If I may, my lord?” she says, holding out her arms, and Hashirama realizes that he’s still cradling Tobirama against his chest.

“O-of course.” Hashirama gently lays Tobirama onto the ground, and the medic immediately gets to work, deft hands already removing the first of the blades protruding from Tobirama’s chest.

Hashirama watches in silence for a moment, his eyes fixed on his brother’s face, pale and drawn with pain, but oddly calm, considering the situation. His eyes are closed, his brows drawn together into a sharp line. Hashirama reaches out and places a hand on Tobirama’s head, brushing back pale strands of hair, staining the silver with flecks of red.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” he says quietly.

“What—choice did I have?” Tobirama’s voice is tight with strain, his hands crimping at his sides, nails digging into the dirt as the medic smoothly removes another blade, palms glowing green as she attempts to heal the damage.

“You could’ve let them hit me.” Tobirama scoffs at this, but Hashirama raises his voice and continues, his hand clenching in Tobirama’s hair. “You never have to sacrifice yourself for me. My life doesn’t matter, I’m not—”

“You _matter_ , Brother,” Tobirama says. The implicit _and I don’t_ sits heavily in the air between them, a crushing weight on Hashirama’s chest.

Hashirama leans down, keeping clear of the medic as she works, and presses his forehead to Tobirama’s, closing his eyes.

“You’re all I have left,” he says quietly, repeating the words he’s said dozens of times before, words spoken in vulnerable moments, in darkness, meant for Tobirama’s ears alone, and he feels Tobirama twitch beneath him, whether from the medic’s ministrations or Hashirama’s words, it’s unclear. “Please don’t leave me here alone. Promise?”

Tobirama huffs out a quiet breath, and it’s a miracle that he can sound so exasperated through the pain. “Promise,” he says, and Hashirama feels a shaky hand reach up to clasp the side of his neck, slick with cooling blood, but a comforting weight nonetheless. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” With that, Hashirama places a dry kiss on Tobirama’s forehead, earning himself an irritated grunt and a pinch on his neck, and then he gets to his feet, feeling solid and sure. He clasps his hands together, calling up his Wood Release, and a sturdy dome of solid wood appears over Tobirama and the medic, who glances up at it a tad nervously.

“This will protect you while you finish healing my brother,” Hashirama says, putting as much confidence into his words as he can. He sees Tobirama’s lips twitch into a little smirk, and his chest swells. “Make sure that he lives.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” the medic says, looking pale and determined. “He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good. I’m counting on you.” Hashirama rolls his shoulders and glances around, taking in the battlefield around them, the chaos that fell to the back of his mind as soon as Tobirama collapsed at his feet. “I’ll be back to check on him in a bit.” He pauses, sparing one more look at his little brother, and then makes eye contact with the medic. “Thank you,” he says, and then it’s back to the blur of battle.

*

The sun set some time ago, but Hashirama has yet to turn on a light. He slumps against his desk, head pillowed in the crook of his elbow, staring absently at his hand as he slowly twirls a brush between his fingers, watching the slick play of ink against paper, tracing meaningless shapes. He can hear the low murmur of voices outside, the usual sounds of a village in early evening. Cicadas hum through the trees, a child lets out a shriek of laughter. Someone, somewhere, slams a door.

It’s been twelve days since Uchiha Madara left Konoha.

Hashirama sighs and lets the brush slip from his fingers with a clatter. He knows he should be completing his work, knows he’s probably being childish, but this village was both his dream _and_ Madara’s, and to have Madara abandon it so suddenly, so _easily_ —

Hashirama clenches his eyes shut, trying to block out Madara’s face the last time he saw it, wreathed in shadows, pale and hollowed and just this side of manic. Instead, he focuses on the grinning boy from his childhood, loud and good-natured and hopeful. That’s the Madara he wants to remember. Not the broken, paranoid shadow of a man who abandoned this village and his entire clan.

Who abandoned Hashirama.

There’s a soft, firm knock on the door, and Hashirama has to fight not to groan in irritation. He turns his face into his elbow and calls out, his voice muffled by fabric, “Come in.”

He hears the door open, followed by the soft tread of someone making an effort to make their presence known. A shinobi, then. And a good one.

“Brother,” says a low voice, and Hashirama feels his lips quirk into a soft smile.

_Of course._

“Tobirama.” Hashirama lifts his head a bit, resting his chin on his arm so that he can look up at his younger brother. Tobirama is clad all in black, a stark contrast to his pale skin and hair. The moonlight filtering in from the windows throws into sharp contrast the tattoos on his face, giving him a fierce and familiar look. Hashirama might be annoyed at having his sulking interrupted, but damn if he’s not also glad to see his little brother.

“You missed dinner,” Tobirama says.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Hashirama says.

Tobirama’s eyes narrow. “You haven’t been hungry for a couple of weeks now, Brother. It’s not healthy.”

“Are you here to lecture me, little brother?” Hashirama asks, closing his eyes.

“No.” Hashirama hears Tobirama shifting, stepping closer, and then something is set on his desk with a quiet _thunk_. Hashirama peeks out of one eye to see a small, sleek bento, sitting right on top of his incomplete paperwork. “I’m here to feed you. By force, if necessary.”

Hashirama shoves himself upright, fixing the bento with a suspicious look. “Did you make it?” he asks.

“Mito did,” Tobirama says, folding his arms across his chest. “It should be safe. Mostly.”

Hashirama hums, and decides that he is a bit peckish. He reaches out to pluck the top off of the bento and is greeted by the wonderful scent of tempura and ginger. He tugs the box near, cracks apart the little chopsticks, and starts to eat for the first time in… he doesn’t even know how long.

Tobirama doesn’t say anything for a few moments, but he does move around the desk to stand beside Hashirama, reaching over his shoulder for the paperwork that Hashirama managed not to doodle on. Tobirama summons a small, controlled katon to light the lamp on Hashirama’s desk, and Hashirama blinks at the sudden burst of golden flame.

“I can finish this up for you,” Tobirama says, poring over the papers in his hands. He turns slightly to perch gracefully on the edge of Hashirama’s desk, one foot on the floor, the other propped against the wood of the desk. “Shouldn’t take me too long. You can have an early night, after you’ve finished eating.”

“I’m fine,” Hashirama says through a mouthful of tempura squash. “I don’t need an early night.”

Tobirama fixes him with an incredulous look, then turns back to the papers. “It’s really no trouble.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“When was the last time you slept for more than four hours?”

Hashirama opens his mouth to retort, but finds he has no answer other than a lie, which Tobirama would surely see straight through. With a sigh, he sets the half-eaten bento down on the desk and rubs his hands over his eyes, pressing his fingers hard against his temples.

“I’m sorry,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “I know I’ve been… not myself, for these past few weeks, but with Madara leaving, and the Uchihas trying to find their footing, it’s just—”

A firm hand drops onto his shoulder and squeezes. “I know, Brother.”

Hashirama rests his elbows on his desk, hands covering his eyes.

“I don’t know where I went wrong,” he says, and his throat feels thick around that truth, a secret that has curdled inside of him since the day Madara told him he was leaving the village, leaving Hashirama alone to wonder what he could have done better, how he could have helped, how he could have convinced Madara to stay. If he had known Madara’s tipping point, could he have prevented it? If he had known the right words to say, would Madara still be here, by his side? So many questions hanging on that terrible word— _if_ —and Hashirama might never know the answer to any of them.

“It wasn’t anything you did,” Tobirama says, strong fingers digging into Hashirama’s shoulder. “Madara was determined to leave. He was never the same after Izuna.”

_Izuna_. A name so rarely spoken. It was a taboo between Hashirama and Madara, too sensitive a subject for either of them. It was even a bit of a taboo between Hashirama and Tobirama, a subject on which they could never quite agree. After all, Izuna’s death, and Tobirama’s hand in Izuna’s death, was the turning point that almost destroyed the dream of Konoha forever.

However, years later, when Hashirama considers the circumstances of Izuna’s death, he knows that Tobirama had no choice. It was a battle, and a furious one, at that. Uchiha Izuna showed no mercy—he never did—and had Tobirama not struck the final blow, there was a very good chance that Hashirama would have been the one burying his last remaining brother rather than the other way around.

The thought makes Hashirama’s skin prickle, and he leans subtly closer to his brother, until his elbow meets Tobirama’s hip. He rests his head gently against Tobirama’s side, comforted by the mere warmth, the solidity of him. Tobirama says nothing, only raises a hand to absently thread his fingers through Hashirama’s hair, palm cupping the back of Hashirama’s head. Hashirama closes his eyes and lets out a low, long breath.

His brother is right here. Madara’s brother is gone forever.

Perhaps Hashirama can understand why Madara felt so lost.

“You going to be okay?” Tobirama asks.

Hashirama just nods, reluctant to lean away from Tobirama’s side.

“Good,” Tobirama says. “Now I want you to finish your dinner and go straight to bed. No excuses.”

Hashirama lets out a helpless little chuckle and finally leans away, smiling up at his brother’s stern face.

“Yes, mother,” he says, already reaching for the rest of his dinner. Tobirama shifts beside him, and Hashirama tenses, fully expecting Tobirama to stand and leave him, off to fulfill whatever remaining duties he has this evening, but instead, Tobirama just settles a bit more comfortably on the desk and grabs Hashirama’s abandoned ink brush, settling the papers on his raised knee so that they catch the perfect amount of firelight.

“Are you… What are you doing?” Hashirama asks, his heart tripping oddly in his chest.

“Finishing up this paperwork,” Tobirama says simply, not looking up from the papers on his knee. “Like I said I would.”

“Oh.” Hashirama scoops up a shrimp, popping it carefully into his mouth and chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “You’re not… You’ll wait for me?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Brother,” Tobirama says, and although his expression betrays nothing, Hashirama can hear the edge of softness in his voice, the deeper meaning to that simple statement: _I won’t leave you. Not like Madara did._ “Take your time.”

Hashirama doesn’t know whether he wants to shove Tobirama off of the desk for worrying so much about him or burst into tears and haul his little brother forcibly into his arms, so instead, he leans ever so slightly back into Tobirama’s space, resting an arm against his brother’s leg, and continues making his way through his cooling bento.

*

They only have a moment, but Hashirama manages to pull Tobirama away from the Uchiha boy and the others, just out of earshot, in a shadowy corner of the room.

Tobirama is frowning at him. “Brother, wha—?”

Hashirama places his hands on Tobirama’s cheeks, cutting him off. He lets his eyes roam over his brother’s face, a face he hasn’t seen in years ( _decades, really, if they don’t count the last time the two of them were resurrected by a forbidden jutsu, and honestly, how cursed must they be to be reanimated twice in one lifetime?_ ). There are lines near the corners of his eyes and drawn deep in his furrowed brow, but apart from the black eyes and cracked skin—symptoms of the reanimation jutsu—Tobirama looks much the same as he did in their prime.

“You haven’t aged much, since…” Hashirama breaks off in a brief, awkward pause. “Since the last time I saw you.”

“Before you died, you mean,” Tobirama says, as blunt as ever.

Hashirama winces. “Yes.” His brow furrows. “That means… that means you didn’t live for very long after I died.” Hashirama knew this, he _knew_ his brother wouldn’t live forever, but the thought of Tobirama dying, and so soon after him… He closes his eyes briefly, pained. “How long was it before—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tobirama says, knocking Hashirama’s hands from his face. “I don’t remember.”

He won’t meet Hashirama’s eye, and Hashirama knows he is lying.

“How did it happen?” Hashirama asks, quietly, although he’s not even sure why he wants to know. He spent years trying _not_ to imagine how his little brother would die, but now that it’s happened, now that it’s real, _has_ been real for quite some time, he finds himself needing to know.

How did his nightmare eventually play out?

Tobirama crosses his arms, glaring across the basement at the other Hokages, who are speaking softly in their own corner of the room. “I sacrificed myself to save my team during the war,” he says. “They made it out alive, and that’s all that matters.”

Hashirama glances over his shoulder at the other Hokages, and most notably at Hiruzen, a member of Tobirama’s own team, who clearly lived to a ripe old age, safely surviving the war that took the lives of two Hokages.

Sighing, Hashirama turns back to his brother, curls a hand into Tobirama’s collar, and jerks him forward into his arms, hugging him tightly.

“Reckless,” he says, burying his face into the white fur around Tobirama’s shoulders.

Tobirama goes stiff in his arms, clearing his throat and awkwardly patting Hashirama’s back.

“Yes, well,” he says. “You weren’t much better.”

Hashirama squeezes Tobirama and pulls away with reluctance, keeping his hands on Tobirama’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. He’s sorry for leaving Tobirama on his own. He’s sorry for not being careful enough. He’s sorry that he couldn’t save Tobirama, that Tobirama didn’t get to live into his seventies and rule the village for a very long time and have lots and lots of grandbabies (not that that was something he would expect Tobirama to do, per se, but he’s still sorry about it).

“Lord First!” It’s the youngest Hokage, the blond one, waving a hand at the two of them from across the room. “Lord Second! We should be on our way.”

Tobirama glares at the poor kid, clearly annoyed by the interruption, but Hashirama waves back, flashing him a grin.

“We’ll be right there,” he says, and then he turns back to his brother, clasping his shoulders through the armor and letting out another sigh. “I wish we had more time. There’s so much I want to talk to you about.”

Tobirama shrugs. “What else needs to be said?”

Hashirama chuckles, low and quiet. “I suppose you’re right.” He claps his hands against Tobirama’s shoulders. “Be safe out there.”

Tobirama blinks at him. “Brother, we’re already dead,” he says.

“Even so.” Hashirama turns away, heading after the rest of their group, knowing that Tobirama will follow. “It never hurts to be careful, and I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You never—” Tobirama begins, but he cuts himself off with an irritated sigh, and mutters something Hashirama cannot quite catch.

Hashirama can practically feel Tobirama rolling his eyes behind his back, but when they finally gather on the cliff above Konoha, and Hashirama feels Tobirama’s hand settle firmly on his shoulder, ready to spirit them both to the battlefield, to Madara, to whatever else awaits, he can tell by the reassuring squeeze of familiar fingers against his skin that Tobirama doesn’t want to lose him, either.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been languishing on my hard-drive for months now, i think, and frankly i'm sick of looking at it, so i hope you enjoyed my word vomit of feelings about senju bros.
> 
> please give me all of the first gen of konoha content. i'd take an entire series, honestly. love these bros.
> 
> title is from "this is not the end" by clare maguire, which is a hecking gorgeous song that makes me feel a lot of things.


End file.
